Eye Eye Skipper

a.k.a Hash Trash for BHHH2 Run 1341 Kantor POS Payangan 7-Oct-17

Barnacle Balls proved once again the week before last at the Payangan Post Office that in terms of Hash run setting he has a very good eye indeed which he uses with a patch, a cutlass, a wooden leg and a cedar chest when setting runs to lend credence to his Hash name. No he doesn’t but he should, at least in the circle. Sailors are usually much better at sea than on land, but this XXXTALL leprechaun well and truly has his land leg (sorry, legs).

It would be hard to fault this run, the only thing missing was a preponderance of up ups and as I think I may have let escape from my keyboard once or twice, I’m not terribly partial to those anyway. So it suited me literally down to the ground. Threatening grey skies were the order of the day but we didn’t get a drop of rain for the duration of the run. Lots of eye-wateringly rich green and expansive paddy territory but the mud, folks, I’m officially announcing, has well and truly set in for the rainy season, bye bye dry as far as BHHH2 is concerned. But wait, let me rephrase that – when was the last time BHHH2 was concerned about anything? Concern, I would go as far as to say, is not one of our major concerns as also isn’t moderation, which we employ well and truly in moderation. Put it this way: there aren’t that many clubs we’d join that would have us as members, so we joined HHH2 which will take anybody, which is a cut above us. Another way to put it is that there’s still a little blood in our alcohol streams so fear not, all is under control.

You get the picture then? Good. Moving right along. I’ve been put under strict instructions from my international medical team from Malaysia to Singapore, Bali and Australia not to eat anything as it’s all bad for you, so I took the unilateral decision to limit myself only to that which is tried and proven both full of goodness plus good for you: beer. I used to adulterate it at the HHH2 beer truck with lemonade but that’s now far too sugary and carbonated and could cause diabetes so, well, beer is the ticket. It’s just that the circles have become a little hazy since making this momentous, prudent life choice and it’s difficult to remember who did what, when or when did who, what. I vaguely recall being berated by the G. Master for being unaware of (I think) some obscure Balinese holy observance. A visiting Netherlander who sounded about as Dutch as Owen Wilson sang an interesting rendition of “The Sounds of Silence” as it applies to masturbation, and that’s about all that bubbles up, as the actress…

… A week later and another exciting installment, this one I’ve decided to call ta da, ta daaaaaaaa :

The Geese are Fucked

I’ve decided to call it this for no other reason than when we arrived at the Victor’s Recovery Run site in Payangan (again) after a very smooth passage indeed, if you’ll pardon the expression, from Sanur on the Magic Bus, our local driver was baled up by a group of irascible geese which kept honking and snapping at the poor man’s genitals and rear end (do you remember the beginning of this sentence? I don’t).

He was more than a little unnerved by this development, aimed a kick at the “bull goose” which drove them (the geese) into even more frenzied honks and and genital snaps (a good name for a rock band and/or a biscuit). They had him on the run at one point. Moving at a respectable clip he flung open the door of the bus and leapt into the driver’s seat. I half expected him to fire up the engine and pull a smokey out of the car park. Anyhow, by the time we got back from the run the previously agitated birds were calm, which moved Hare 69er to utter the very observation that inspired the title of this passage, pithy at least, immortal at best.

It was another excellent run, extremely well-chosen for its chronological appearance the day after the Victors, at which eleven plus one, I think it went, kegs were consumed. I attempted to get the lowdown from Hare Serial Offender about the run, before the run but he was tight lipped. The only way I could have got any more from him would have involved his gonads and a Bunsen Burner.

True to his word though slopes proved to be gentle and of little duration and our delicate senses were kept well away from noisy roads, kampongs and dogs. It was mostly soothing paddy views and light jungle. The short was a merciful five K and there was no monkey business with checks and check backs, which were kept to a bare Minimum. Paper and chalk were mostly blindingly clear; I just don’t know about the wisdom of blue chalk is all. At one point the Hash Master (I won’t mention any names) led us right through a check and past it for forty meters or so. I don’t blame him I didn’t see it myself. It was blue.

The circle proceeded in a mostly fairly tame and cooperative manner (for us). Worm’s pre-or- early-teen daughter was given the name “Wriggly” which should hold her in good stead in the years to come. R.A. Organ Grinder issued a fairly bald statement by bringing out the hairless ones (including him). It looked like “The Magnificent Seven” who were all Yul Brynner or maybe a remake of “Close Encounters of the Third Kind”. All good fun-making, but I still think the beer is finishing a little too early. I know its hard to call, but if there are still twenty five, thirty or so drinkers in the circle, keep it going. Two or three each and there won’t be much left. Surely we’re not saving up for tee shirts, my pembantu has plenty, me too, drawersful.